Cut
by Weskette
Summary: Andrea died in May.


**This is actually my seventy-first story! I don't think it's very good. The writing style is different from my normal one. Sorry if it's crap.**

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**Cut**

Andrea died in May. She got a phone call. The other end told her what happened. Her sister died. Some gruesome accident; blood and steel and death.

She died with her sister. Her eyes glazed over. Her heart slowed to a stand still. Each day was agony. She often found her hands on a blade. She carved into her skin. Each day was monotony. Each day was Hell. She never smiled. She never laughed. She never cried. She went through months of her life this way. Each day a new wound. Each day a new Hell.

Her friends slowly left. They couldn't bring her back from death. She simply worked case after case. Never bothering to speak when it was not needed. She only found relief in watching blood drip down her stomach or her arms.

She got fewer cases. It didn't take long to reach only a few loyal clients. She never asked why others dropped her. Just continued on in Hell. Each day remained the same. She didn't ask questions. She let each day pass without conviction.

She waited for the day her hand slipped. She waited for the blade cut too deep. She waited for death.

She received one new client. She did her job. She learned all she could. She planned to win his case.

He was a man named Daryl Dixon. His brother had gotten him into trouble. He had needed a lawyer. He chose Andrea randomly by finding the first in the phone book under lawyer who was in his budget. He knew during the first meeting she had something wrong with her. He saw death in her eyes. He saw his own mother's loss of hope. His mother's want to die.

He saw Andrea was lost.

It was out of partial curiosity he asked her out on a date. She declined. She wanted to keep to monotony. Monotony was safe. Monotony let her stay sane.

They met daily to discuss his case. He told her everything she needed to know. He held nothing back. He also became enraptured by her. Even depressed, she was graceful. She was beautiful. She was smart.

He asked her out again. She declined.

She went home after rejecting him. She took out a blade. More cuts. One on her stomach, one on her leg, one nasty one down her arm. She resumed her monotony.

She won Daryl's case. He was thankful. He insisted he take her on a date. "Celebration or some shit," he had said. She hesitantly agreed. He took her to a diner. Niether spoke much. She remained emotionless.

He walked her to her door. He placed two fingers under her chin. He tilted her head towards him. He kissed her. She pulled away. She spoke goodnight. He did too. She went inside.

A blade found her skin again. A large cut appeared on the back of her hand. She sat back in her chair. She rested her hands on her stomach. She watched blood drip down from her hand. Watched it stain her clothes. She closed her eyes.

Daryl sat frustrated in his truck. She was so out of his leaugue, so depressed and so beautiful. He wanted to pull her out of her depression, help her find a reason to live. He sighed. He glanced over at the passanger seat. Her purse. In his car. He quickly returned to her house. He approached the door, knocked, and opened it. He called inside. "Andrea, you forgot your pur-" He saw her. He saw the blood. He dropped her purse. He rushed forward, taking a hankerchief out of his back pocket. He pressed the cloth to the wound, frowning angrily. He found his voice. He asked her why. She didn't answer. Her face turned away from his. He kept one hand on the wound. The other jerked her sleeve up. His eyes were met with scars. And almost healed cuts. And some only a few days old.

He swore. He spoke again, asking why the hell she did it. She didn't answer again. His lips suddenly crashed into hers in a rough. She found herself tilting her face up towards the contact. He pulled away. He swore. He told her death ain't worth hurtin herself. She closed her eyes.

He forced her to hold the cloth on her cut. He moved to her bathroom, finding a first aid kit under the sink. He pulled out a roll of gauze. She sat quietly as he wrapped it around her hand. He took out anti-biotic and smeared it on the unhealed wounds on her arm. One is cut off under the fabric on her shoulder. He asked her to remove her shirt. She did. He swore again. More litter her torso. Less than the ones on her arms.

He had done all he could for her cuts hours later. He met her eyes and waited before asking why. She shrugged. She muttered about her sister, looking away. He grabbed her hand. Told about his missing brother. She didn't respond. He roughly pulled her towards him. His lips descended on hers and she actually responded.

He spent the night kissing each scar. He spent the night loving her reactions to his movements. He spent the night relighting the spark of life she had lost.

She was suddenly alive again. Alive and thankful.


End file.
